A Small Red Box
by Scribblingz
Summary: John discovers Sherlock's secret. Trigger warning for self-harm/cutting (There are depictions, look after yourselves) Can be a oneshot, it will depend on the response. Rated for M for Self-harm
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters - All rights go to Moffat, Gatiss and Arthur Conan Doyle**

* * *

**Author's Note: This fic is Likely to be a one-shot unless there is a good response. I did find this quite difficult to write and there may be slight variations of character, and I apologize for this. The depictions of cutting were a little more graphic than I was intending, please, please, if this is going to affect you, do not read. This fic was a very personal thing for me - the writing of it helped me immensely, and I am sorry if it is actually worse than I think it is. I was happy, that is why it is being published. Apart from that, enjoy the story and I hope it is too your liking :)**

* * *

John Entered the little flat, noting Sherlock sitting like a hawk on the edge of an armchair, his fingers steepled against his lips, the all too common pose. John shook his head a little and began unloading the groceries into the fridge, or the small space he could find around the experiments.

'Pressing case is it?'

Sherlock shot him a look

'Bored John. Bored.'

He threw himself down to sit on the chair properly, feet slamming flat to floor, placing his hands on the armrests, fingers drumming urgently.

'A Cigarette, John. Get me one'

'Nope. You're doing well.'

'Please John'

John shook his head a little before leaving to get his laptop from his room. Upon his return, he noticed Sherlock searching the flat. He smirked a little before turning his attention the write up of cases for his blog.

John saw Sherlock leave the room out of the corner of his eye, but didn't think much of it, knowing that it would likely result in an explosive experiment or a rare occasion that the man actually slept. The latter was less likely, given the time of day. John refocused his attention back to his laptop.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock entered his bedroom and immediately pulled a small red box from his draw, containing some tissues, gauze, a bandage and a single small blade, which he picked up with his thin fingers. He placed the box on his bedside table and climbed onto his bed, clutching the razor.

The razor. A tiny weapon of destruction, removed from a pencil sharpener many years ago, something to change himself, slightly unhealthy, yes, but better by far than any drug. Sherlock had first begun this habit when he was 15. He wasn't an emotional child, and many took this as heartlessness. Sherlock Holmes did care. Immensely. He did however have a small amount of trouble allowing people to see this. When he was called heartless, he didn't cry or weep, he thought to give them exactly what they wanted and began to drag the emotions out of himself, or bury them deep, until he could barely feel at all. Eventually, he didn't need the razor the keep the feelings out, but habits are very hard to break, and boredom always needs an antidote.

Slowly, Sherlock raised his left sleeve, scars lined his skin, memories from the past, reminders. Some white and raised, likely to never fade, some pink, new skin, more recent tracks of boredom, there were purple scars, those days, almost faded from existence. The fact the Sherlock always wore long sleeves was not due to embarrassment or shame of any kind, he couldn't care less if anyone saw. However, if someone did see, the constant questions of his current mentality and the looks of sympathy, and yes, disgust, he received distracted him from his thinking, his work, so he kept them covered.

He pressed the blade to the inside of his forearm, feeling the familiar prick and slight pain, sighing as some of the boredom was alleviated. He slid the blade across, watching the blood bead. The relief from the boredom and emotions creeping up on him was instantaneous, but didn't last long, so he moved the razor slightly to the right and made another cut, enjoying the pain. Sherlock made cut after cut across his arm before setting the razor on his bedside table and leaning back into his pillows, relishing in the throbbing pain of his arm, closing his eyes and relaxing.

* * *

John was slightly concerned - he had not heard any explosions coming from Sherlock's room and the man himself had not yet emerged. He rarely slept, and if he did, it was never during the day. Fearing that Sherlock might be ill, John set his laptop aside and rose from the couch.

John entered Sherlock's room after knocking. With no response, he presumed that Sherlock was asleep, a sight that John simply had to see. However, upon pushing the door open, he stumbled upon a very different sight. Sherlock was relaxed, eyes closed. His features similar to those of a sleeping man, however, his bloodied arm was in stark contrast indeed.

'Oh God Sherlock'

His eyes flew open the second John spoke and he quickly tried to cover his arm. This confused him slightly, he had never worried about people seeing before. Never the less, he fumbled to cover the still oozing wounds. But it was to late. John had seen.

* * *

**Thankyou for reading :) As I said, if you would like a continuation, please review to let me know.**


	2. Chapter 2

**First of all I would like to thank everyone for all your kind words. Thank you for supporting this story and the reaction was incredible. You all kept it alive and your feedback was so helpful. It was far more than I was expecting so thanks for that. Sorry this took so long to upload, I honestly had no idea how to continue, then I went back to school. I hope this update is to your liking and accept my sincere apologies for how long this took. Please enjoy. :)**

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry. One more thing. I am so incredibly grateful to those of you who suggested where I should take this story and tips for writing. I hope this follows at least a few of your ideas. I am unsure of when I will end this fic, but I may continue for a further few chapters after this. Sorry. No more interruptions. Proceed and enjoy. Thanks.**

* * *

John stopped short. He had seen Sherlock bleeding, before his arm was hurriedly and clumsily pushed underneath the blankets. He stood for a moment, blinking, quite oblivious, attempting to think what might have caused those injuries. Then the realisation hit him, and everything clicked into place, the shock nearly knocked the breath out of him and forced him to take a step back. He felt like he was going to fall over. He had known Sherlock to have self-destructive tendencies before, but to John, this was a whole new level.

John closed his eyes and swallowed, taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself before moving to Sherlock's side. Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes, does this?

Sherlock rolled over as John approached so that he was facing the wall rather than the expression on his friend's face. He curled into a ball - adopting a position very similar to that of a sulking child.

'Sherlock...' John tried for a kind tone, but it probably came across as lost or helpless, which would be the most likely cause for the lack of response he received from the injured man before him.

He tried for a more commanding tone; that of a solider, or a doctor.

'Sherlock. Show me.'

This also caused no response from Sherlock. He was always a stubborn man. John thought back to his experiences with embarrassed or ashamed patients he had treated and tried to pull some ideas on what to do from there.

He took a deep breath.

'I'm trying to help. We won't talk unless you want to.'

Sherlock mentally swore at himself. John wasn't supposed to find out, but he granted him what he asked for. He rolled over toward John and offered his arm, glaring the entire time.

John took in the damage to the proffered arm - about ten cuts, not as deep as he had originally thought - the amount of blood was due to no attempt made to stem the flow. He determined that none of the cuts would need stitches, but were still oozing a small amount of blood.

He quickly got up, letting Sherlock know that he was only leaving to get his first aid kit, then he dashed up to his room and threw the door open. The injuries were by no means urgent, however he did not want to leave Sherlock alone for longer than necessary. John grabbed the first aid kit from his shelf - he always kept it well-stocked. It was useful if he or Sherlock were injured while they were on the streets chasing criminals, or one of them suffered due to Sherlock's experiments, which happened more frequently than either of them would like to admit.

John hurried back to Sherlock's side, finding his position unchanged. He quickly began to treat the injured arm.

While John cleaned and dressed the injuries, Sherlock's mind wandered. He was properly confused for the first time in his life. Why did he care so much that John found out? He was never worried about others seeing before, he had never tried to hide anything unless it would interfere with his thinking, therefore it shouldn't worry Sherlock that John had seen. But it did. Somehow John was different.

John firmly bandaged Sherlock's arm, noticing a small glint on the bedside table. He slipped the razor into his pocket quickly and Sherlock, still lost in thought, didn't seem to notice.

John half-rose to leave, not knowing when his welcome had run out, when a hand closed around his wrist, pulling him back down.

'Stay'

A single word, uttered half in the hope that John wouldn't hear it, but John heard and it unnerved him. Sherlock never wanted company, yet he was asking for John to stay.

Sherlock also surprised himself when he spoke. But the realisation of why he had hit him quickly.

Sentiment.

John quickly obliged Sherlock's request, sitting back down and swinging his legs up onto the bed. He was a bit unsure of anything to say - his bedside manner is somewhat rusty.

'You can talk. It's obvious you want to know more.'

John decided on the best way to formulate the question - simplest was best he eventually concluded.

'How long?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and scoffed slightly.

'You're a doctor John. You look at the scarring and you tell me.'

John did already know the answer to the first question posed - he had simply decided to start of nice and easy, although it was quite obvious to him that this had been going on since Sherlock's teen years.

'Ok. Why.'

John knew that was pushing it - it is quite a difficult and personal question to pose.

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly, but provided no response. John decided not to question Sherlock any further that day. He would try another time, but he didn't want Sherlock to think he had given up.

'Don't think I'm done, Sherlock, I just don't want to push it to hard today'

He stood once again.

'No! John! Stay!'

John almost grinned at Sherlock's desperation. He sat back down on the bed. Sherlock pulled the blankets back so they could both slip inside, away from the now dropping temperature.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and began to gush out words in a great hurry.

'John, I will tell you, but I-I...'

He broke off as suddenly as he began.

John had never heard Sherlock lost for words. He always had something to say. Usually insulting. But now John filled in the blanks.

'You can't. Not today. I understand, it's alright.'

Sherlock suddenly felt relaxed, and extremely grateful toward John. He couldn't put it into words, but he hoped John understood.

'Thank you, John.'

* * *

**Thank you all so much once again and sorry that took so long. Once again, please review and let me know your opinions and anything you would like to see if I continue on with this story. Have a great day!**


End file.
